Travelers Returned
by LadyKate1
Summary: Written with Tango1. Believed dead in the Holy Land, Marian returns to England to find herself embroiled in political intrigue, torn over her relationship with Robin, and forced to deal with someone she never expected back in her life-Guy of Gisborne.
1. Chapter 1

**NOTES: **

_This story is co-written with **Tango1**; the rest of it will be posted under a new joint account, in chapter-by-chapter installments with two updates a week. We will not start posting the rest until the story is completed, which probably won't be until at least February. The prologue and first chapter are currently being posted as part of Robin Hood Big Bang (rhbigbang on LiveJournal)._

_Many thanks to **Sais2Cool** for the beta, and also to **huladori**, **Delicious Denial**, and **sylvi10** for many helpful ideas and discussions. Thanks, also, to the creators of Robin Hood BBC and the actors who brought these wonderful characters to life, and to everyone who has made the RH fandom such a wonderful place to be-above all, to **railise** and **Kegel** for hosting__ RHBB._

_The characters in this story (those who appeared on Robin Hood BBC) belong to BBC/Tiger Aspect, and (except for Djaq) to legend. This is a not-for-profit work of fan fiction, written for the enjoyment of the authors and their fellow fans and as a tribute to the show and the characters._

* * *

><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

"So, back to England."

The young squire who stood gazing at the distant coastline turned at the sound of the sailor's voice. It had been nearly an hour since the ship had sailed, but the day was clear, and the faint line of Acre's sun-bleached roofs still glimmered on the horizon across the blue expanse.

"Not going to miss this place, are you, lad?"

"No," the squire said, running a hand through his short-cropped brown hair. "I cannot wait to get home."

The captain's mate looked him over with open curiosity, taking in the lad's hollow-cheeked face and the sword at his side. In truth, he seemed too young to have held that sword in anger. Yet his eyes had the haunted look the mate knew too well by now, the crusader's look. "Been out here a long time, then?"

"Too long."

"Seen some fightin', have you?"

"I fought for King Richard."

"For the king himself? Go on!" the mate grinned. "Why, you're just a beardless lad, hardly old enough to carry a shield—"

The squire's grey-eyed gaze stopped him short.

"I fought," he said tersely. "My lord was wounded in battle; I took a sword in the side to save his life."

"Go on, now. Got a scar to go with that story?"

The youth frowned, then slowly lifted up the dark green sleeveless jerkin and the shirt underneath.

"God's whiskers!" There it was, a scar less than a handspan long but a deep and ugly thing, sucking the skin inward and twisting the muscle beneath. "Beg yer pardon, my lad. That's as nasty a piercing as I ever saw, and that's the truth. You must've had all the saints on your side the day you took that, to be breathing still."

"I know." The squire lowered the shirt and once again seemed lost in his thoughts.

"Well, then; what do they call you, laddie?"

"Edward. Edward Rallston."

"I'm William Perry." The sailor extended his rugged hand. "So, where's your lord now?"

The young man turned away, squinting into the sunlight as the warm salty breeze lashed gently at his face and ruffled his hair. When he spoke, his voice was almost lost in the din of the deck hands' shouts and the plaintive cries of sea birds. "Everyone that I fought with went back to England believing me dead."

"So yer goin' back to rejoin yer people, eh? Godspeed to you, then."

"Thank you."

"Well, I'll see you 'round the ship." The captain's mate made to leave, then stopped and looked back. "Say, the man that gave you that cut—what happened to him?"

The young man turned his head and seemed to ponder the question. His lips quirked in a tiny, bitter smile.

"He lives."

* * *

><p><strong>CHAPTER ONE<strong>

Waking up sprawled on his stomach, Guy quickly became conscious of a multitude of aches and pains everywhere, a particularly nasty one in his right thigh. He was alive, at least. Then another awareness crashed into him, briefly obliterating everything else.

He had killed the Sheriff.

Panting, he scrambled to get on his hands and knees, then staggered to the floor. _He__'__s __dead __and __I __killed __him._ His stomach lurched; shaking all over, he slumped down on the bed again. His head was throbbing and he had a foul taste in his mouth, a reminder of all the mead he'd gulped down last night—partly to dull the pain while the physician stitched up his leg, but he might have needed it anyway. He tugged at the edges of the bandage, stained and streaked with dried blood, and wondered if he should call for a servant to have the dressing changed.

To think that he had very nearly let the damned viper kill _him._

It came back to him now, the moment when they had grappled in a castle passageway and he'd had Vaisey trapped, viciously slamming his fists into his opponent's back, black rage pounding inside him. "It's your fault Marian is dead—you poisoned everything—"

"You don't know the half of it, _dear __boy_," Vaisey hissed, his voice muffled from being squashed against the stone wall. "How do you think she got out of the house and in the way of your sword, huh? You think the pretty bird flew the coop on her own? Gisborne, you damn fool—"

Taken aback, Guy had loosened his grip long enough for Vaisey to turn around; the Sheriff was still pinned to the wall, but now facing Guy with a loathsome smirk.

"— _I_ took her out to the desert."

"_What_?"

"Tied her up with Hood and his unwashed friends where Richard left them to die. Who knew he was going to—"

"You promised," Guy spat, "you _promised_ you'd let me marry her—" His hands shot up to Vaisey's throat.

"Oh, Gisborne—it's rather sweet, really—such gullibility in a grown man—" the Sheriff wheezed, squirming and trying to pry Guy's hands off his neck. "Did you think—I would smile and congratulate you—after your bride tried to _kill_ me? A clue—"

Still in shock and blinded by anger, Guy had not noticed the dagger aimed at his side until it was almost too late; he had time only to deflect it, and it pierced his thigh on Vaisey's "no." Guy screamed in agony, and Vaisey shoved him back and adroitly picked up his sword, pointing it at Guy, jabbing it, forcing him up the steps to the battlements.

It was the same dagger that saved him, moments later; when he was clinging to the edge of the crenellated wall and waiting to fall to his death, a final surge of rage and desperation made him yank the blade from his own leg—the pain lost in the thick tide of hatred—and plunge it into Vaisey's chest.

_Marian..._He thought he'd whispered her name as he hauled his exhausted body over the wall and collapsed next to his former lord; or maybe it had only been in his mind.

Still shivering, Guy got up from the bed and stumbled toward the washstand to splash water on his face and rinse his mouth. Would Prince John really make him Sheriff now? _You__'__d __make__ a __fine__ Sheriff, __Gisborne_, he'd said when asking Guy to kill Vaisey; but John could be trusted only to be untrustworthy, and Vaisey, lying scum though he was, had no doubt told the truth about John asking _him_ to kill Guy.

Well, he _would_ be Sheriff, damn it to hell, or else all of it would have been for nothing.

Guy dressed, deciding against calling any servants, and limped to Vaisey's now-vacant quarters. As he came closer, his gut began to churn with the ridiculous fear that he would find his dead master seated at the desk with a gleeful grin and a ready quip, and he actually swallowed and held his breath when he pushed the doors open. The chamber was empty, of course.

He closed the doors behind him and wandered about, grimacing every time he put too much weight on his right leg, taking stock of the room. _Mine,_he thought. But nothing here was his; it was all Vaisey, every single object here bore Vaisey's stamp: the curtains, the furnishings, the wall tapestry, the vases, the birdcages.

An ornate, silver-rimmed glass pitcher on a tripod stand behind the desk brought back an especially unpleasant memory. Vaisey, then in his first year as Sheriff, had been having fun bullying a nobleman who'd come to complain about the rough treatment of his peasants during tax collection, and Guy had been standing beside Vaisey's chair, taking quite a bit of pleasure in his lord's ability to intimidate men of wealth and rank. Then he had bumped his elbow against the pitcher, Vaisey's recent gift from a bishop, and the accursed thing had tottered slightly on its stand. No harm had been done; but Vaisey had risen to his feet and barked, "Gisborne, you clumsy idiot!" and struck him hard across the face. He'd then resumed his conversation with the nervous-looking noble, while Guy had stood frozen to the spot, his head tilted up because he had a nosebleed and because his eyes were burning.

Guy walked over and took the pitcher between his hands, lifting it carefully. Then he whipped around and, with a growl, hurled it at the fireplace where it shattered with a high-pitched wail.

As he went to survey the results, his eyes fell on the poker lying by the fireplace, and that set his thoughts in a new direction. He picked up the poker and weighed it in his hand, his lip curling in a sneer. Then he swung it and brought it down on a tall ceramic vase painted with birds and leaves. The vase split with a resounding crack; Guy continued to batter its remains, grunting with the effort, until there was nothing left but small shards and dust. One of the shards, he realized, had struck him in the face and cut his cheek. He cursed as he wiped off the blood and scanned the chamber for more breakable things.

"This—is for Marian—" Guy assaulted another vase. "For Marian—you black-hearted—foul—poisonous toad—" The poker swung down with every word, crushing the pieces of glazed clay. "And for me. And for me—you vile—filthy—spawn of the devil—"

As he paused for breath, the door behind him creaked open, and an alarmed guard stuck his head in but quickly retreated at Guy's "Get out!" Next came Vaisey's finely carved chess set, a particularly satisfying target in view of the Sheriff's habit of turning games of chess into rituals of humiliation and ridicule. A few blows smashed the board and split the table in half, scattering the chess figures to the floor.

It was then that Guy became aware of another noise—a disjointed chorus of squeaking, burbling, fluttering sounds that he realized came from the Sheriff's birdcages. He dragged himself toward them to take a look, still holding the poker. Startled by his rampage, the birds were hopping on their perches, flapping their wings and twittering madly.

He took one of the cages down from its hook and carried it to the window. There were four birds inside, little gray things much like the one the Sheriff had put in his hands on the day… no, he was not going to think about that day. Guy smashed the windowpane, threw the poker down and ripped off the door of the cage.

The birds stayed where they were, chirping anxiously.

"Go on," Guy muttered, shaking the cage. He reached inside, but the birds became frantic and he pulled his hand away. Finally, one flew out; it perched itself on the top of the cage for a moment, looked around, gave another chirp, and took to the air. Its fellow captives followed, and Guy threw the cage aside and went to get another one.

When there were only empty cages left on the floor, he grabbed the poker again and, in a last fit of still-unspent anger, pounded them into a heap of broken wood and twisted metal. He stood over his handiwork, panting and wiping sweat from his forehead, his wounded leg on fire.

He turned around and flinched. His sister was standing there, eyeing him with a trace of curiosity and arch amusement.

"Do you need any help—breaking things?"

"No." He scowled, feeling faintly ridiculous. "I don't need help with anything."

"Prince John is looking for you. Business, I believe." Somehow, Isabella managed to inject a hint of a nasty hidden meaning even into that simple statement.

"Very well." Guy dropped the poker and headed toward the door. As he followed Isabella out of the chamber, he curtly ordered a guard to have the mess cleaned up.

"Is he really going to make you Sheriff?" Isabella asked, walking by his side.

Guy shot her an irritated glance. "Why shouldn't he?"

"Congratulations." Her eyes were on him, scrutinizing him with their too-intense gaze. "You don't look very happy."

He snorted. "I'll be happy enough once it's done."

"Good," Isabella murmured with an unsettling smile. After a moment she said, "So, you have no wife?"

Guy snapped his head toward her, a snarled _Why,__ what__ have __you __heard?_ on the tip of his tongue and the thought that _Hood __must__ have__ told__ her_ hammering in his head. Then it occurred to him that it was a natural enough question to a brother one had not seen in seventeen years, and he restrained himself to a chilly "No."

As they walked down an arched passageway, Guy watched the sunlight from the windows sparkle in Isabella's dark curls and saw a different woman before him, always the same woman. _I__ killed __him,_ he said to her_.__ The__ Sheriff __is__ dead,__ Marian, __just __as__ you __wanted._ Only it was too late, and Marian was just as dead as the Sheriff, and he had never been so completely alone.

* * *

><p><em>Four<em>_ more __days __to __Hull._

It was going to feel like four weeks, after all this time at sea—especially if it kept raining and she was stuck here below deck, in a musty-smelling cabin where the ceiling was too low to stand and the space was barely enough to turn around.

Marian kicked off her jerkin and boots and settled down on the hard, narrow bunk. At least she wasn't shackled, the way she'd been on her hellish journey to the Holy Land ten months ago. So much had happened since, and she had had far too much time to brood about it while holed up here with nothing to do.

The healed cut in her side began to tingle. She shifted a little, slipped a hand under her shirt and rubbed gently at the bumps and ridges of scarred flesh.

In Acre, Djaq's friend Bassam had told her that God must have saved her for a special purpose, to survive such a wound. But what purpose? Back in England, she had known exactly what she had to do: thwart the Sheriff and his vile plans, help those too powerless to help themselves, work for King Richard's safe return—for Robin's cause. In the Holy Land, she had saved the King and nearly given her life for Robin's cause, and thwarted the Sheriff's plot ... and now she was going home, marked forever, and she wasn't even sure to what she was coming back. No, that was ridiculous; she had a husband, for one—a man she loved, admired, had dreamed of marrying since she was fourteen. _Marian__ of __Locksley. __Countess__ of __Huntingdon.__ Robin__'__s __wife._ It still sounded like … someone else. But she'd learn. Besides, whatever was happening in Nottingham, she and Robin still shared the same ideals.

Only now, nothing would be the same. King Richard was coming home too: he had sailed a fortnight ahead of her, and while Marian had heard that he planned to stop in Aquitaine first, he would be back in England soon enough. After everything that had happened in the Holy Land, she could not feel the pure wholehearted joy she once would have felt at this. Still, it was good news: Justice would be restored, perhaps not perfect and not always tempered by compassion as she would have liked, but a far cry from Vaisey's vicious travesty of law and order. Robin would get his lands and title back. His friends would no longer be outlaws. She would be Lady Locksley. And their fight would be over.

Marian sat up, pushed up her shirt and unwrapped the linen cloth around her chest, then exhaled a long breath. At least down here, she was able to undo the binding and get out of _that_ particular confinement.

She lay down again, hands folded under her head. No, nothing would ever be the same, starting with herself. There were so many things she could have done differently, from the start. If only, instead of trying to kill the Sheriff … no, no there was no point in thinking about that again. If only she had tried to stop Guy in some other way—if only she had let Robin know she was alive…

The first thing she remembered was floating in deep, black, murky water, trying to surface and being pulled back, panic coiling in her chest.

There were things before that, but they were just hazy pieces of something, pieces that slipped away whenever she tried to hold on. Hot sand, a small stuffy room. Voices, calling her. A blade, bright with blood. A sun-drenched square—white walls—chains jangling on her own wrists. Faces: a hideous sneering face with a gray beard and a jewel-studded tooth; a familiar, comforting face with sand-colored hair, marred by grief, wet with tears; another, darker face looking down at her, twisted in agony and horror.

And then, the black water all around her, and a voice.

"Djaq! I think she's waking up!"

She had to follow that voice; that was the way out.

Then, a different kind of darkness, not a watery one. All she had to do was open her eyes; but that wasn't easy because her eyelids felt heavy, bloated, crusted shut. Finally she managed to blink, and there was light, a blur of light at first; another flutter of panic. Marian allowed her eyes to drift closed, rested before her next effort, and lifted her eyelids again.

The blur began to shift into shapes and colors: a red and green beaded curtain, a bright-colored rug on the wall, a silver jug on a stand. Two people, standing over her: A man in a white shirt, a woman in a bright green dress, with olive skin and short black hair.

_Will.__ Djaq._ She tried to say it but her lips could barely move and her mouth and throat felt scorched. She tried to remember where she was—what was wrong with her.

That was when the pain came. Pain in her left side, like a serrated blade slicing through her flesh without stop, shooting white-hot needles down to her hip and thigh. She gasped and finally made a sound, a groan, squeezing her eyes shut.

"Marian," Djaq said. "Can you hear me?"

She whimpered and tried to nod. Something cool and wet touched her lips, and she opened her mouth to feel water trickle in. Even moving her tongue took an effort.

"Hurts," she rasped.

"I will do something to relieve it," Djaq said. "Do not move."

Marian closed her eyes and lay still while Djaq drew back her blanket and murmured, "I have to take off your bandage now."

Despite Djaq's best effort to be gentle, when the bandage was peeled off Marian shrieked. She wasn't conscious of making the sound, only of the sound itself, the shrieking and the white terror, and then a hand on her shoulder and a cup at her mouth, and Djaq's voice, suddenly hard: "Drink. It will help you sleep."

Marian wasn't sure how long after that she lay drifting between sleep and restless half-awareness, in a haze of images that could have been dreams or memories or visions. And then she was awake, really awake, her eyes taking in the dimly lit room, her mind completely clear. The pain on the left side of her stomach made its presence known, hot and bright but bearable. And she remembered _everything_. The Sheriff had taken her to the Holy Land as his prisoner. She had saved King Richard. Guy had stabbed her. She was in Acre, then, recovering from her wound. Alive.

"I don't want to see him, Djaq! Not after what happened last time."

The hushed voice—Will Scarlett's voice—drew her attention. Marian turned her head, listening.

"I understand that, Will." The voices came from behind the beaded curtain. "And you know that right now I do not feel much friendship toward Robin, either. But we _must_ let him know Marian is alive. This cannot continue."

There was a brief silence, then a sigh from Will, and a grudging, "I know."

Marian lay still, anxiety slowly creeping over her, making her skin prickle. Robin didn't know she was alive? Will and Djaq were angry at Robin? Was she still dreaming?

"Go to the camp," Djaq was saying. "You do not need to see Robin. Talk to Allan. He will take care of it."

No, this was no dream. Marian raised her head up from the pillow and called out, "Djaq!"; her voice cracked, coming out as a rusty squeak that startled her.

The curtain rustled and Djaq came in briskly, Will hanging back in the doorway behind her.

"Marian! You're awake." Djaq leaned over to touch her forehead. "How do you feel? Are you in pain?"

"It's all right, it's—it isn't too bad," Marian muttered hoarsely. "I'm very thirsty..."

"Here." Djaq poured water from a jug on the small beside table and brought the tall silver cup to her mouth, solicitously lifting up her head and telling her to drink slowly. After a few sips, Marian dropped her head back on the pillow and caught her breath, licking her lips.

"Djaq," she said. "What's going on?"

Djaq sat down on the bed, her face kind and concerned. "You do not remember what happened to you?"

"I do. That's not what… Did you and Will have a quarrel with Robin?"

Djaq exchanged a quick glance with Will. "I am sorry you heard that. I…" She sighed. "Do not think about that. Will can go to the King's camp and speak with Allan."

"Djaq, please. What's wrong?"

The Saracen woman shook her head. "I do not want to cause you distress. You are only beginning to recover from a wound that nearly killed you. Even now you are fighting for your life, and you must save _all_ of your strength for that. For you to be shocked or upset—"

"I _will_ be upset if I know something is being kept from me," Marian interrupted, with a vehemence that made her cough; a bolt of pain pierced her side, and she grimaced and cried out.

"This is not good for you," Djaq said worriedly. "You need to rest. Let me give you a potion—"

She began to rise, but Marian put a hand on her arm. "I will drink your potion _after_ you tell me. Why does Robin believe I'm dead? And why are you angry with him?"

"Tell her, Djaq," Will said.

"All right." Djaq paused a moment, hands folded in her lap. "We all thought you were dead at first, after—after—"

"After the sword was pulled out," Marian whispered. "I remember."

"We took you to a crusaders' burial ground not far from there. Allan, Much and Little John dug a grave, and Robin … he just sat there holding you in his lap and crying, and would not let go…"

The mention of the grave, _her__ grave_, made Marian shiver; at the same time, she felt the hot sting of tears. _Robin_. Memories welled in her mind of those final moments before—before what was to be her death. _I __love__ you, __my__ wife..._

"Much kept trying to tell him that it was time, that it was over. Then, messengers came for the king. They said that Saladin's army was moving near Acre, and that Richard had to return to the camp at once in the event that fighting began. Richard told Robin he could not ask him to stay by his side at such a time; but Robin … it was as if the news had awakened his spirit. He said he would go with Richard—that it would be better than to see you being put into the ground forever."

Marian sniffled and raised a hand to wipe her eyes; her vision blurred and sparkled with tears. Djaq gave her a long look. "Are you sure you want to hear this now?"

"Yes, of course. I just don't understand how you could…" She swallowed and trailed off helplessly; Djaq _must_ have had her reasons.

"Perhaps you will understand," Djaq said, "though you may still be angry with me, or with both of us." She glanced at Will, who stood stiffly a few steps away.

"Please continue."

"Much was going with Robin, of course, and Robin asked Little John and Allan if they would come too." Marian nodded; to Robin, they were his men now, and where he went, they went. "Will said that we two would stay and—do the rest."

"We were going to do it right," Will said, coming closer. "We found a stone and I carved your name and a cross into it."

"So they said their goodbyes and left, and then—" she hesitated, looking for words.

"And all of a sudden she said, Will, I think she may be alive." Will pulled up a rug-covered stool and sat down next to Djaq by the side of the bed.

Djaq gave a small headshake. "I blame myself for not seeing it sooner. All along, I knew that I was missing something. I just could not—"

"Seeing what?" Marian asked.

"The blade, when it came out—it was clean, except for blood. That means your bowels were not pierced, and there could be a chance to save your life. So we got you out of the cloak that was wrapped around you, and I looked for a heartbeat—and it was there, though very weak." She paused. "It is a strange thing… The blade cut through your old scar, where the flesh had hardened when it healed. Perhaps it was the older wound that saved you."

"_You_ saved me. Again."

"With help from Will Scarlett. He rode like the wind to get the message to my uncle's friend, Bassam, asking for medicines and a surgeon's tools."

"Anyone could have taken the message," Will said. "What you did—"

Djaq stopped him, her hand on his arm. "Let us not tire Marian with too much talk." To Marian, she continued, "After we brought you back here, Will wanted to go to Robin at once and tell him. And perhaps this is where I did wrong."

"No," Will muttered.

Djaq braced herself. "Marian, I thought that you were probably going to die. Uncle Bassam brought one of Acre's best physicians, al-Qassim, to examine you, and he said that there was one chance in ten, perhaps in twenty, that you would recover or even regain consciousness. It seemed to me that it would be too cruel to Robin—to give him such hope only to take it away and make him watch you die again. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," Marian said. "Yes, I do... I think you did the right thing, Djaq, and—I can never thank you enough." She paused and frowned. "But why are you and Will—"

"I am about to tell you," Djaq said. "If you are truly sure..."

"Djaq, I do not need to be protected from the truth," she said, dreading it.

"The day after we brought you here, a battle broke out between the armies of Richard and Saladin. Richard recaptured Acre and took nearly two thousand of Saladin's soldiers as prisoners. Saladin took some English prisoners too, and there were negotiations for an exchange. Richard gave his word that no one would be harmed. Then…" Djaq's voice was tight as she continued, "Richard received a report that some of the English prisoners had been killed on Saladin's orders. I am not sure what the truth is; I have heard that three English soldiers tried to escape and injured a guard, and were killed during the attempt. And so—Richard ordered his men to execute his prisoners. Every last one."

In the silence that followed, the only sounds were Djaq's agitated breath and distant voices somewhere outside the house. Will put a hand on Djaq's shoulder, and Djaq sighed and placed her hand over his.

Marian blinked in disbelief. "_What?_"

"He had them all killed, Marian," Will said, his hushed voice taut with anger.

"They were tied with ropes," said Djaq, "and taken to the desert outside the city. And—butchered like animals. They say some were hacked limb from limb…"

Marian felt as if a cold, bony hand was lodged inside her chest, slowly closing its grip. This wasn't happening. Not to her. It was a dream. It wasn't true. It was—

"God have mercy," she murmured.

Djaq's mouth twisted slightly, and she made a bitter sound. "Perhaps your God will. Your king who fights in his name, he had none."

"I am so sorry, Djaq…" In the face of such a thing, a "sorry" fell so far short of the occasion as to be almost a mockery; but there was no other word. "After everything you have done… But surely Robin cannot believe this was right—have you spoken to him?"

Will snorted and turned away. Djaq's dark eyes were full only of the deepest sadness.

"Will went to Richard's camp to speak to Robin," she said. "To tell him that you were alive, and here with us."

She fell silent; she and Will exchanged a glance, and he spoke up again. "I told him it was horrible, what was done to those prisoners. I said, You told us Richard was a man of peace. You convinced _Djaq_. Robin said, Tell Djaq that I regret this very much and I understand how hard it must be for her. So I said, But how can you continue to serve him after this? And Robin said— "

"—that Richard is our king and we must follow him, and that's what loyalty means," Marian finished for him, with a numb certainty.

"Yes," Will said gruffly. "My king and _your _king, Will, if you're an Englishman still—that's what he said."

"—and that doesn't change because we don't like some of his decisions."

"Yes. Besides, he said, King Richard is our only hope for saving England from the likes of the Sheriff and the Black Knights." Will paused, drawing a breath. "So I told him, If the King does such things, what makes him better than the Sheriff?"

Marian stared at him, shocked. "You said _that_?"

Will nodded. "Robin was furious. He shouted at me. He said…" He lowered his head, then looked up, his eyes defiant. "He said that was treason. He would've hit me, I swear, if Much hadn't stopped him."

"Robin…" Without warning, a harsh sob racked Marian's body, and the new burst of pain was like a claw ripping into her flesh; it cut off her breath for a moment, stifling her wail, and she was seized by the savage fear that she would die here after all. "Djaq! Help me!" she blurted, and Djaq's hands were on her shoulders, firm and soothing.

"Lie still," Djaq said. "This is why I was afraid to upset you. Will, bring me the potion."

Marian's lips were still trembling and she spluttered as she drank the thick, milky liquid; when she was done, Djaq wiped her mouth and chin with a cloth.

"Marian, listen to me," she said earnestly. "You _must_ be more careful. If your stitches tear—it could be very bad. I do not want to alarm you, but your life is not yet out of danger. That is why I want to keep you from anything that could make you agitated. Do you understand? You need rest and you need to stay calm."

Marian gave a small, subdued nod. The pain was subsiding, and already her eyelids were growing heavier and her mind was starting to drift into a sleepy haze.

"And do not worry," Djaq said softly, stroking her forehead. "Will will go to the camp and talk to Allan. It will be all right."

"No, wait." Marian's eyes snapped open. "Don't."

"What do you mean?" Djaq was staring down at her with obvious confusion.

"Don't—send the message." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "What you said about not giving false hope … it's still true, isn't it? I could still die? You told me—"

"He sails back to England soon. About a week, I think."

"Don't do anything," Marian whispered. "Please, Djaq. Not yet."

Djaq touched her forehead again and sighed. "All right. If that is what you wish."

"Thank you," she breathed out, and sank back into the thickening fog.

In the next few days, Marian slept long hours and still needed potions and salves to ease her pain, but her strength was slowly returning. Soon she was able to sit up in bed, at least for a short while, and to eat broth and porridge brought by Djaq. She was also beginning to chafe at her forced inactivity and helplessness, and Djaq kept telling her to be careful and have patience.

One afternoon, the physician al-Qassim came over, a round little man with a tanned and very wrinkled face and a peppery beard; with Djaq as his interpreter, he told Marian he was most impressed by her recovery. He said something else that made Djaq smile, and then chattered at her excitedly, apparently urging her to translate it, until Djaq gave in. "He says you should thank both your God and ours for putting you in the hands of such a great physician, one who has the grace of a woman and the wisdom and skill of six men."

"Only six?" Marian said. Djaq translated that, too, and al-Qassim laughed and said that she had to be better indeed.

"You _are_ amazing, Djaq," Marian said when the doctor had left. "This is the second time you've saved me … after Gisborne stabbed me." Until that moment, she had managed to avoid thinking of him and of the fact that he had nearly killed her; now, the bitterness spilled out. "The coward. He just stabbed me and ran away. Didn't even have the courage to face what he had done."

She caught an odd look that Djaq gave her, as if struggling with whether or not to say something, and felt a twinge of unease. "What is it? Is he dead?"

"No." Djaq shook her head. "It does not matter."

"Are you protecting me from too much excitement again?" Marian smiled faintly. "Please. I'm feeling much better. I want to know."

"I saw Gisborne in town, four or five days after he stabbed you. He… he was looking for you."

"What do you mean, looking for me?"

"He—he grabbed me in the street when I was going to the market to get herbs for your medicines. He recognized me, even with my headscarf. He pulled me into an alleyway and put a dagger to my neck…"

"Oh, for the love of God…"

"He was hissing in my ear, Tell me where she is." Djaq winced. "He was drunk—I could smell it. I managed to take the dagger from him and push him off me, and then… then he started begging. He got on his knees and clutched the hem of my dress. He kept saying, Take me to her, please, I need to see her one more time. I know you are one of Hood's people, you know where she is. He was weeping and…" She shuddered with revulsion. "He tried to kiss my feet. He said he would give me money, give me anything…"

Marian closed her eyes. "What did you do?"

"I ran back into the street and he came after me. That was when I saw the Sheriff and two other men. He shouted, There he is! and the other two ran up to Gisborne and seized him. The Sheriff called him a drunken idiot and said they were due on the ship. Gisborne tried to fight them—he was screaming that he wanted to stay and die here … howling like an animal. A crowd started to gather and one of the Sheriff's men, who spoke our language, said to pay no attention, just a mad Englishman who was being taken home. At last the Sheriff struck him in the head with the hilt of his sword and knocked him out, and they dragged him away." She paused and exhaled. "I do not know if it's wrong, to feel pity for such a man."

"No," Marian said unthinkingly, and saw the mute question in Djaq's eyes. "Why do you look at me that way?"

"Robin used to worry that you had some affection for Gisborne," Djaq said reluctantly.

"And you believe that?" Marian scoffed. "Affection? After he ran me through with a sword?" At the thought of it, her wound throbbed, and she wrinkled her face as she pulled herself up and leaned back on the pillows.

"And before?"

"Before… I don't know. I was moved by his feelings for me, I think. And by how alone and unhappy he was. I wanted to see something good in him, despite the evidence of my own eyes. I wanted to believe that he could be a better man if he just found the strength to go against the Sheriff." She smiled bitterly. "Perhaps it flattered me, to think I could save him."

Djaq studied her for a moment, then nodded sympathetically. "You know, when Allan betrayed us, I never stopped believing that he was a good man in his heart. That some day he would be that man and do what is right. And in the end Allan justified my trust."

"And look at the way Guy has rewarded mine."

"But it was Allan who had to make that choice. And he made it." Djaq paused, staring ahead, then shifted her eyes back to Marian. "I can see that you pity Gisborne, even now…"

"I despise Gisborne." Marian lay back on the pillows, staring into the low ceiling. "He made his choice too. I told him I would marry him if he stopped the plot against the King and killed the Sheriff." Turning her head, she noticed Djaq's startled expression. "I thought Robin was dead… I offered Guy that choice. And he betrayed me to the Sheriff and then—did _this _to me." She gestured toward her belly. The image of Guy stumbling around Acre drunk and half-mad, raving about seeing her one more time, came unbidden and would not go. "Whatever he's suffering now, he brought it on himself."

"Marian, you must put him out of your mind." Djaq's tone was gentle but emphatic. "Whether it's hate or pity that binds you to this man, you need to let it go."

"You're right," she murmured. "Of course you're right."

"Think of him as a dead man," Djaq said. "He will be, soon enough. Perhaps it will be a kindness."

Marian was silent, her eyes tracing the intricate pattern carved into the wood panel overhead. The thought of Guy being dead was not a comforting one.

To her relief, the front door of the house was heard opening and shutting, and Djaq, perhaps also glad to end this conversation, rose quickly to her feet.

"That must be Will, back from the market. I will make you some broth to eat."

"Thank you." As Djaq started toward the doorway, Marian said, "So you and Will are getting married."

Djaq stopped and turned; she was smiling, fondly and with a kind of shyness that Marian had never seen in her face before.

"We are, in a month. We would have been married already, but Uncle Bassam insisted on a real wedding."

"And then you're staying here."

"Yes. Will plans to start as an apprentice to a woodcarving master so that he can learn our traditions of the craft."

After a brief pause Marian asked awkwardly, her voice faltering, "Was it because of—the killing of the prisoners that he decided not to return to England?"

"No, he made his decision before it happened. It was because of us. I want to continue studying science; there is a scholar here who was my teacher before I went to fight in my brother's place. A man wise enough"—Djaq smiled wryly—"to believe that God gave women brains for a reason, and that it is wrong to waste such gifts. So I knew I would be happier here; but Will and I also knew that we wanted to be together. And Will said he would stay, too."

"You are a very lucky woman, Djaq."

"I will be when this war is ended." Djaq gazed at her thoughtfully, then came back to the bed, sat down and put a hand over hers. "Marian… I am greatly disappointed in Robin—but he does love you very much and he will be a good husband. You will work everything out."

"I know we will," Marian said. What she did not say was, _But__ he__ would __never __give__ up __everything __he__ knows __to__ make__ me __happy._

Two days later, while Marian was picking at her breakfast of bland milky porridge, there was a distant knocking, followed by the sounds of someone being let into the house and by several voices; for some reason, she tensed with vague alarm. After a moment she heard Djaq's quick footsteps, and then the curtain over the doorway was pulled aside and Djaq came in, visibly agitated.

"What's going on?" Marian asked.

"Allan is here. He came to say good-bye to Will and me. They sail in a few hours. Should I tell him to get word to Robin? Do you want to speak to him yourself?"

Marian stared at Djaq, her mouth dry, her heart pounding, sweat breaking out all over her skin. She was not ready; she needed time, time by herself—God's mercy, how selfish was that? She could not let Robin and the others go on, go back to England, thinking her dead. Only she was nowhere near well enough to travel, and if Robin found out now he would stay here for weeks if not months—and Vaisey and Prince John would be plotting in England with no one to stop them. She had told him to carry on the fight, and he would be giving it up to wait for her here. _No, __this __is __absurd_, she told herself; _of__ course __he __has __to __know_.

"Marian?" Djaq prompted.

She had to send word to Robin. But how would he react when he learned that Will and Djaq had known all this time that she was alive and had kept it from him? Things were already bad enough between them; with this —

Before Marian could say anything, there was a loud clatter and an angry voice yelling in Arabic—a voice she recognized as Bassam's—and Djaq flinched and ran out of the room. There were more voices; Djaq seemed to be pleading, and Bassam was shouting again, even louder and more furious, and Marian thought she heard Will and Allan as well but they were drowned out by all the noise. The door slammed with a thunderous bang, and then there was an eerie stillness.

When Djaq came back, she looked so shaken that Marian sat up in fright. "What happened?"

"Uncle Bassam was terribly angry that a man from Richard's camp would dare to enter this house. I could barely keep him from drawing his sword. He—he threw Allan out. Poor Allan... I will go after him. Don't move."

But Marian, anxious and unnerved, did move, forgetting all about the bowl of porridge in her lap; it went tumbling to the floor, and without thinking she reached over to catch it. Pain slashed at her belly, forcing from her a shrill cry, and looking down she saw a red stain blossom on her shirt through the bandage. Djaq rushed to her side, muttering what sounded like curses.

"Your stitches—you have torn your stitches. Lie down."

It was thus that the decision was made for her; and she had to admit that when she emerged from the oblivion induced by Djaq's sleeping draught, her wound re-stitched and pulsing with pain—Allan long gone by then, of course—a small part of her felt relieved.

And now, in four days, she would be in Hull—then, in Nottingham. Soon she would see Robin ... _her__ husband__ …_ having paid for her journey home by selling the ruby ring with which he had wed her in what they both believed were her final moments. She would have to tell him that she had knowingly let him go on grieving her loss, and try to explain why. Apart from the obvious reason: that she was probably the most selfish, heartless, disloyal woman in England.

Marian got up from the bunk, retied the binding around her bosom with a wince—Djaq's tips on passing herself off as a man had not quite prepared her for this—and got dressed. She'd had enough of staying here, stewing in her thoughts and memories.

Up on the deck, the rain had tapered off to a drizzle that coated her skin with a cool sheen of moisture. Leaning against some barrels, Marian smoothed back her damp hair and stared into the gray distance where the waves merged with the sky. She wondered what Robin was doing. "I suppose the first thing he'll do is kill Gisborne," Will had told her in Acre, a few days before she left. But what if Robin had died at Guy's hands in his pursuit of revenge, or stained his soul with cold-blooded murder? What if they were both dead? She tossed her head under thin spray of droplets, forcing her mind off that track.

"Royston, isn't it?"

She turned to see a stocky middle-aged man, one of a group of merchants traveling on the ship.

"Rallston," she said stiffly.

"What are you doing out here in the rain, lad? Come join us for a good drink of ale and a game of dice!"

Marian considered the invitation, then nodded. "Gladly. Thank you, Sir."

She had generally kept to herself on her journey: there was too much of a risk of making a slip while talking to people. But right now, company sounded good. Better, at any rate, than being alone with past and future ghosts.


	2. Chapter 6 excerpt

**Okay, you've been waiting patiently for updates, so here's a sneak peek from Chapter 6 as well as an update to let you know that Tango and I are fairly close to finishing the story. Right now we're expecting to post it in January or February, though there's no hard-and-fast ETA. Thank you all for your patience and interest. **

**Again, a reminder: The full version of the story will be posted not under this account, but under LadyKate and Tango (I can't put the full URL here but you can easily find that account by doing an author search). The best way to make sure you don't miss the posting is to start following it now.  
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**A few explanatory notes for the scene: By now, Guy is an outlaw in a complicated relationship with Robin's gang, and is camping out with Allan for the night after a confrontation with Little John at the camp. And yes, he knows that Marian is back. How did they all get to this point? Well, you'll have to wait for the full story to be posted to find out. :) Enjoy!**

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><p><em>Scene from Chapter 6<em>

Cradling a half-empty wooden mug between his palms, Guy stared silently into the fire that Allan had made outside the dilapidated old mill. The last of the sunlight was gone and the blue of the woods was deepening into nightfall, made all the more stark by the small, swaying circle of reddish glow from the fire. He felt the fire's heat on his face and hands, and the night's cooling breeze on his back; his clothes were still slightly damp, the fabric clammy on his skin. At least he'd thoroughly scrubbed himself and his clothing in the waist-deep stream; there wasn't much left of the misshapen chunk of soap Allan had brought along. Guy might have appreciated the gesture if it weren't for the humiliation of knowing that his recent want of a bath had been so obvious even to Allan.

A plan; he had to come up with a plan to get out of here, preferably alive. Blast it to hell, he was not going to wait and see if he'd be turned over to Richard for execution or clobbered to death by Hood's big hairy friend. Would Allan be willing to help out if he thought there was something in it for him? And Marian… that was another reason to get away from here. Marian.

"Aw, come on, Giz, don't be so glum," Allan said, his words muffled by chewing on a piece of meat pie. "I mean—look on the bright side."

Guy turned to look at him.

"And what exactly is that?"

"What is what?" Allan took another bite of pie, his eyes sparkling merrily in the firelight.

"The bright side." Guy stared into the fire again. "I'm an outlaw—I'm hiding out in the forest with people who would as soon cut my throat as look at me—I haven't got any money—haven't got any family except a sister who wants me dead—haven't even got a goddamn weapon. I've got King Richard _and _Prince John for mortal enemies. And the closest I've got to a _friend_, apparently"—he shot Allan a dirty look—"is a man who'd sell his own mother and father for the right price."

"What, the way you sold your sister?" Allan parried, unruffled. Ignoring Guy's murderous growl, he chuckled and continued, taking a quaff from his mug, "Don't think I would, mind you; mum died when I was a boy, God rest her soul, and nobody in 'is right mind would'a paid a brass farthing for me dad."

Still chafing from Allan's jab, and from the realization that the circumstances of his sister's marriage were now known to every scummy outlaw around Nottingham, Guy found himself at a loss for words. He gulped down the remainder of his own drink. It was strong and tart, a mix of ale and hard apple cider. He reached for the skin at his side and poured himself more.

"Anyhow," Allan said, "you've alive."

"What's your point?"

"Well, that's good, innit?"

"And that's the bright side," Guy said. "Not much, is it."

"Hmm…" Allan stuffed the last of the meat pie in his mouth. "Marian's alive." Then he added, "'Course she's married to Robin, but—"

"Allan. You're not helping."

"Sorry."

Guy pondered this a moment. "No, you're right," he said in a low voice. "Marian's alive. That's…"

Marian was alive and he was not her murderer. That, at least, made the world bearable.

For a while they sat in silence, no sound but the crackle of the fire, the rustle of leaves overhead and the distant hoot of an owl. The nearly full moon was now bright in the dark sky, its glitter rippling across the water. Guy slowly drained his ale.

She was always Robin's; he knew that now. Nothing he could have done would have made a difference. She had given her heart to Locksley before he left for the Crusades; how foolish to have thought her so fickle that her love would fade in his absence.

"You knew all along, didn't you," he said. "About them. And you didn't think I should know about it?"

"Wasn't part of the deal." Allan threw a couple of dry sticks into the waning fire. "Warned you I wasn't spilling all of Robin's secrets, didn't I? 'Sides, I did tell you—when you asked."

"You knew all along," Guy repeated. He refilled his mug and stared into the thin foam, marveling bitterly yet almost with detachment at the depths of his past delusion. "She was never at Ripley Convent. She was with Hood at his camp."

"Yeah, all right—"

"That letter with the Mother Superior's seal—that was _your_ trick." Guy caught Allan's embarrassed look of assent and shook his head. "Damn it, Allan. I always treated you well…"

"You mean, _after_ you had me tortured," Allan said. "What? You remember how you got me spyin' for you, don't you?"

Guy eyed him silently as his mind, growing hazy from drink and tiredness, slowly grappled with the idea that his recollection of his history with Allan—consisting mainly of generosity on his part and foul ingratitude on Allan's—was not entirely accurate.

"Oh _that_." He took another swig of ale. "And you're here keeping me company, instead of back there with your friends?"

"Well, you're a friend. Sort'a." Guy snorted and Allan went on, "Can't be too choosy in my position, mate. Robin's a friend, and he damn near cut my throat when I went to work for you; I'd be dead if Marian hadn't stopped 'im." He paused, his expression turning serious. "I couldn't 'ave told you, could I? It wasn't just any other bloke; she was dealin' with outlaws. If I had told ya, what would you have done? 'sides stringing me up from the rafters, that is. What, turn 'er over to the Sheriff to be hanged?"

"I don't know," Guy said thickly. He tried to imagine the possibilities, none pleasant.

"Look … I'm sorry it all ended up such a mess, alright? I know you cared about her a lot." Allan picked up a stick and stirred the fire, sending up a cloud of orange sparks. "I mean, I know you weren't tryin' to kill her like Robin thinks…"

Guy lifted his head.

"_What?_"

"Back in Acre—Robin, 'e kept sayin' you murdered Marian." Allan glanced uncomfortably at Guy, who felt as if he were flailing to grasp something that kept evading his reach. "It was an accident, right?"

"How the _hell _does that happen by accident?"

"Well—I figured you were goin' for the king and she must'a jumped in the way and…" He stammered and finished in a hushed voice, "I mean, bloody hell, you couldn't'a done it on purpose, Giz!"

Guy emptied his cup in several long, slow draughts, letting the strong, sour taste fill his mouth. Finally he said, "It wasn't—an accident."

"Bloody 'ell," Allan muttered.

"So." Guy poked one of the rocks at the fire's edge with the tip of his boot. "Still want to be _friends_?"

Allan finished off his drink. After a long pause he said, "Maybe you went off your head from the heat, 'ey? The sun can do that to ya, 'specially with all that runnin' around in all that black leather…"

"It wasn't the heat."

A gust of wind made the fire sway, snatching a gnarled fallen tree out of the darkness; the night's chill was settling in, and the moon had sunk into gathering clouds. Guy rubbed his shoulders. The silence dragged on, growing heavier. There was something else—

"Wha' happened to that man's wife an' child?" Guy slurred.

"What man? You're drunk, mate."

"Not drunk enough," Guy said darkly, reaching for the ale-skin again. "Th' big man with the staff. The one that…"

"Oh, Little John." Allan shifted and looked away. "Yeah, you grabbed his kid and hauled 'im off to the dungeon. Alice, that was Little John's wife, went to beg the Sheriff to let him go and he locked 'er up too."

Guy shook his head, straining to summon up some memory of this particular event.

"I think he mouthed off to ya when you were collectin' taxes in Locksley, or somethin'. Back when the Sheriff was doing some sort'a torture festival—"

"What … the—the bowmaker's boy?"

"That was Little John's kid. I reckon the bowmaker was sort'a his stepfather, what with Little John bein' an outlaw."

There was another long silence. Guy twisted the mug in his hands, watching the foamy liquid swirl inside.

"Are they—"

"Nah, they're fine," Allan said briskly. "Look, it's gettin' late and cold, mate, and I think it's starting to rain. Let's go in and get some sleep." He gestured toward the dilapidated shack, barely visible in the darkness. "It's drafty and full of cobwebs and smells like a dog's arse, but 'least it's a roof over your head."


End file.
